


That Woman

by CricketJames



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketJames/pseuds/CricketJames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second of two Tumblr prompts, a missing scene set post-Culloden/end of Dragonfly in Amber.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Woman

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second of my two most recent Tumblr prompts. As I noted in the last piece I posted, these were my first foray into writing Jamie and Claire. Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Prompt: Imagine Claire in 1948 (or after) finds one of the old missing posters of herself and/or the sketch of Jamie, the ghost Frank saw outside the window.

* * *

 

The nose was wrong. All she could think about was how wrong the nose was. In the few brief moments where that wasn’t the center of her attention the descriptor of “possible blue eyes” made her tear ducts burn from tears that threatened but did not fall. The paper in the pocket of her cardigan crinkled as she moved in the chair, shifting her weight in an attempt to get comfortable – linen trousers did not afford the same padding woolen skirts did when sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair.

The tea in front of her had gone tepid, the conversation had slowed, and the biscuits remained untouched. The outing had been a concession on her part, a grudging admission to the fact that she could no longer get through the day wearing a housedress. She had exactly two outfits in her possession, both gone a strange scent from being closed inside a suitcase for years and neither exactly de rigueur at the moment – a concern that was shared by Mrs. Graham and Frank far more than herself.

She would rather be in homespun wool and linen rather than silk charmeuse.

But she didn’t have the will left in her to argue, so the morning had been spent at the shops and the local dressmaker. Shopping parcels littered the floor around her feet.

“Are you not hungry, dear? It’s well past noon…” Mrs. Graham’s voice cut through the fog of thought and she shook her head, attempting a smile. She couldn’t explain to the kindly woman that her stomach had grown unaccustomed to the richness of modern food, nor that for her morning sickness lasted the better part of the daylight hours. As understanding as the woman may be, this was not the time or place for either conversation.

“Your tea’s gone cold, lets get you another cup,” she said, reaching across the table and giving Claire’s right hand a gentle squeeze. Moments later a fresh cup sat steaming in front of her and its companion whisked away in the same movement.

“I need to pop back across to the post, the Reverend is out of stamps and it slipped my mind earlier,” Mrs. Graham said, busying herself gathering her pocketbook. “I trust you’ll be alright here? You can see me, just out the window,” she said pointing. Claire wasn’t sure if she should take that as a warning that she shouldn’t try to slip away or if it was meant as a kindly suggestion that should she need anything she wouldn’t be far.

She nodded, “I’ll be fine.”

She waited until the older woman had begun to cross the street before she pulled the papers out of her pocket. Pulled hastily from a tack on the notice board in the post office hours before and shoved in her pocket while the woman’s back was turned, she hadn’t had the chance to truly look at either of the notices. She wanted to look at them at leisure, but the chance of interruption once they had returned to the manse was high.

The notices were old, yellowed around the edges and faded on one side from being near the window, but still more than legible. Her finger traced the crude line drawing. So much of it was wrong beyond the nose. What sat in front of her was lifeless and bereft of any of the light and humor his face held. It looked stark, imposing - almost foreign. But, at the same time so familiar. The notice made no mention of his hair beyond a few hastily drawn curlicues falling from beneath his cap. Her breath hitched at the thought of his hair – the color, the texture of it, how it curled wild against his face and the soft, fine hair at the nape of his neck. She pressed a hand to her breastbone, trying to ease the ache and convince herself to take a breath. She had to keep breathing, she’d promised him that.

She let her eyes close and head bow slightly, focusing on regulating her breathing. A few deep breaths and she felt back under control, or as in control as she could possibly be. Her eyes opened and the first thing they lit upon was “possible blue eyes” and she felt the hot flush of anger well inside her again.

She rested her right hand lightly on his likeness as her eyes drifted to the other page. Her own face stared back. Frank had used a photograph from their first days in Scotland. She sweater she wore sat folded in her suitcase. She almost didn’t recognize the woman in that photo - happy, in love, unaware of what was to come. She in no way wanted to be that woman again, for that meant losing the past three years of her life. It meant losing Jamie.

No. She didn’t want to be that woman again.


End file.
